Remember Her
by kwritten
Summary: After 3x19 - Jeremy dealing with Compulsion; Chapter 2 added as an afterthought: Jeremy, years later
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Remember her  
**Fandom:** Vampire Diaries  
**Characters/Pairings:** Jeremey (discussion of D/Elena and other characters)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Disclaimer:** I claim nothing, the PTB won all the things... As always, I am with out a beta - so any mistakes are mine alone.  
**Author Notes: **Started writing this through the hiatus, but didn't finish until after 3x19 aired, so while I had had other intentions previously, "Heart of Darkness" actually was **perfect** and fit into my haed!canon perfectly.

Began writing as an exercise: What if, when Jeremy left, he _knew_ that he had been compelled?

_**Remember her**_

Being compelled left a weird taste in Jeremy's mouth. A little bit like dust, or dirt – hovering on the back of his tongue. Sometimes he smelt whiskey that wasn't there, at first it made him grimace but now – now that he was so far from home – now it made him wish that he wanted to know what Damon was doing. The first time, he hadn't noticed a thing. The occasional taste of dirt, the random whiff of alcohol, was just the _world_. The world could smell and taste funny, right? After months of living in a blurred state – his _extracurriculars_ enabling him to shut out most of the world – he merely assumed that he was living again... really truly experiencing the full sensory experience of being alive.

It all seemed ironic, now: knowing that the words of a dead man had made him feel alive. That the taste and smell of Damon had brought him back to the world, had enabled him to love and grow in ways that terrified him. He wondered, sometimes – but only in a lazy way – if his sister, if Caroline, if any of the other women in Damon's life could taste him on their lips the way he sometimes could. He wished, those wishes we wish in the dark of the night just before we slip into sleep, that he could have a piece of _her_ the way he walked around with a piece of Damon; but the thought always manifested in that moment when memories can't be created, in that moment of almost-sleep in which thoughts shape our dreams, but are long forgotten by dawn.

His greatest wishes were always forgotten, his strongest dreams were always ignored, his clearest memories were pushed aside.

This time was different. This time, Jeremy _knew_ everything. He could still see Elena's face as Damon leaned over him, whispering words in his ear that Elena had composed for him. He still felt her hovering presence, on the verge of tears at her own duplicity, watching him walk through the world the way she had dictated. He remembered the look on Bonnie's face when he repeated those same words to her, saw her recognition and resignation. He wondered, at the time, why Damon so purposefully made sure that he was aware, why he added that one small extra bit:

_Remember her_.

At first he had clung to the peacefulness of silence, of taking orders, of embracing the compulsion. He said his goodbyes with a smile. He ignored the silences that accompanied his words, the long side-glances between everyone in on the joke, the pained expressions on the faces of the family that was sending him away. He smiled broadly in the face of Damon's raised eyebrows and felt as though they had won, somehow.

He had wanted to leave, anyhow. Or – that's what he told himself on the long bus ride, staring at the miles of road as they took him further from the only home that he had ever known. On the second morning away, he started to get an itch – what if Damon had tricked him? What if Elena didn't actually want him gone? But it only lasted a moment… the memory of Elena's face after he had killed… Of course she wanted him gone. And of course he understood her point of view; Damon had placed it in his mind as easily as one places a flower in a vase. Jeremy fought the urge to wish the plant would die; it came unbidden and made him feel sick to his stomach. He wanted to understand, wanted to be gone, wanted to feel protected. Didn't want the taste of dust to fly away, leave him alone with his own mind and senses.

_Remember her_.

On the third night, Damon's voice woke him.

His cell phone shined bright in the dark room as he held it in his hand he stared at his contacts, his finger hovering over their names. Elena. Alaric. Damon. Bonnie. Stefan. Tyler. He fought the urge to call them. He rationalized all the reasons to confront them all, to expose their lies, to fight for his place in their lives. But it suddenly wasn't worth the effort and he slept without dreaming.

In the morning, he bought a sketchpad on the way to school. He spent the next few days drawing Bonnie's face. Elena's hands. Damon's 's mouth. A girl in his class saw them and dragged him into the newspaper office – they gave him a weekly comic-spot. Encouraging the transfer student by bestowing favors – he wrote about what he knew. Vampires, werewolves, witches – the students ate the stories up. He was published on the school website daily within a month. It was a fad, a craze. The editor beamed at him from behind her thick glasses, exclaiming over his ability to take something so popular – the _vampire_ – and make it so indistinguishable from all the other incarnations that his classmates were so infatuated with.

"That Dustin could really give Edward Cullen a run for his money," they said to him in the hallways.

"Steven is such a dreamboat!" he heard in the quad.

"I wish Helena was _my_ BFF," he heard whispered in his classes.

One tear-stained freshman face had followed him around like a small puppy before Jeremy shooed her away.

Every night he tried to write something else, tried to draw a picture of this new world – but it always went back to Mystic Falls. He tried to forget them, forget his old life and the dangerous world he had been sucked into. He tried to take off his father's ring, but he couldn't let go. He wanted to, he tried burning the stacks of drawings, tried to back out of the comic strip each week – but it never stuck.

"Remember her?"

Jeremy glanced up at a group of jocks as they watched a pretty freshman walk across the busy cafeteria. He sighed down at his sketchbook, open on the otherwise empty table in the otherwise full and busy cafeteria. The group of jocks just paces away reminded him of Matt and Tyler, but in a nondescript way that made him feel more at home than homesick. InMystic Falls the world had changed so radically so quickly, that Jeremy had almost forgotten the comforting presence and understanding of the clique-system that had shaped his adolescence. The always-changing fact of Vicky and Elena had kept him on speaking terms with the other boys, but the chasm that now separated him from the jocks so close at hand – reminded him clearly of the years before the Vampire Invasion, the simplicity of knowing that Tyler may get high like everyone else, but wasn't a part of Jeremy's world… knowing that while he had spent hours on the couch with Matt playing video games all weekend, Monday morning they were on barely a first-name basis. It was an archaic system, but it made things cleaner. Made the world easier to negotiate, knowing who and what you were... knowing that couldn't change. He embraced the comfortable social distance between him, the brooding artist, and them. He embraced the silence that reflected a former life, a former self that he sought the memory of but could never quite reach.

_Remember her._

The nights grew longer every day he was gone. Full of empty dreams of blank silences. Some nights he woke in a sweat, conscious of another presence in the room, but it was only the dog – his imagination. He began to see shapes in the shadows, ignored dark hallways, was jealously suspicious of flashy-gothic jewelry on his classmates. He saw monsters in the shadows.

Every night, he packed his bag to go home. Packed it and walked to the door, but could go no further. Why go back? There were monsters everywhere, he was sure, so why not go to a place where he knew the threat personally – could call it by name?

Every night, he unpacked his bag and settled into his life. Unpacked it and sat silently for hours, drawing memories upon memories, turning his life into a series of black and white images that made concrete sense, images that could have concrete meanings.

"Remember her?"

Jeremy tried not to listen to his classmates talk. In all these weeks, and even with his "comic's" popularity, he still stayed mostly to himself – engaging as little as possible, telling himself that this was natural, that he didn't ever have very many friends, that he wasn't pushing himself, that he was waiting for an invitation, that his fellows did not seem in any way to be part of a universe he no longer understood.

He tired of their incessant chatter, of their problems that centered on grades, fashion, girls, sports, parents. He sought an interest in their incessant chatter, he waited on the sidelines, longing for a reason to join in – waiting for a moment of clarity and understanding. He felt always in a state of waiting, of being fixed on the outside, longing for a place inside.

He watched, observed, reflected – but could not understand the people around him. He reached for understanding, he let their words swirl in his head for hours, seeking always a common thread – something to latch onto and relate to. His few social interactions had been awkward and forced. He had felt, in every core, how ineffectual he was. How separate he was.

He was nominated for Junior Prom King, but never knew. He was constantly surrounded by people, but never saw them. He was fitting in quite well, was more popular than even Elena had been back home, was a large success in all his classes and in sports, was the most desired boy in his class… but he always saw himself alone, never realizing the effect he caused.

_Remember her._

The instinct to go home, he fought with every breath. Like a beating drum, his heart reminded him that he was human, that there was a battle to fight, that his loved ones were in danger, that there were things he could do to help… and he fought it. He ran, some mornings, to still the restlessness – to convince his heart to beat faster, to break the unending rhythm in his ears. The track and field coach tried to recruit him, pestered him daily in the corridors. He fought the desire to say no, to admit that this was only a temporary life, he said yes to keep up the façade.

He sometimes stayed up nights, wandering the streets hoping for an incident with the supernatural. Hoping for a reason to call home, to hear his sister's voice, to hear Bonnie and Caroline chattering in the background, to hear Alaric's deep breathing as he talked, to sense the existence of Damon and Stefan hovering in the background of the call.

Meanwhile, his phone stayed silent. Hours upon hours of a blank screen, access to his former life slipping further away every passing hour.

"Remember her?"

Jeremy looked up when the student editor flopped down one of his conception sketches submitted a few days before. There, in the background, was the silhouette of a young girl. She was merely a shadow, a mere slip of a thing sitting with her back against a bookshelf. Jeremy's heart skipped a beat. He could not even recall drawing the image. He had managed, in every other instance, to keep that particular figure out of his drawings.

"He-llooo? Earth to Jeremy!" the student editor was a very serious senior with bright red, curly hair that she kept back in a knot that somehow made her look even more unkempt than if she had let it just fall naturally around her face. She squinted at him over the edge of her glasses that had the audacity to constantly slip down her pale face. He often became fixated on a small mole on her upper lip, staring at it until her face no longer had any shape. He shrugged and went back to his work. She (Vivien? Vanessa?) huffed. "Mr. Greggor, you know – the Chemistry teacher? He saw this on my lab table today and had all kinds of questions. It was really weird." She paused to tuck an errant curl of hair behind her ear, "He wants to see you–" she prodded his shoulder with her pencil "– go _now_."

When he entered the empty Chem-lab that Mr. Greggor was dead. He knew it the way he knew that he was still alive, that Elena somewhere breathed, that Damon somewhere was drinking single-malt, that Stefan was brooding. He knew it the way you just learn to know things growing up with vampires dating your sister. His hair stood on end in the empty room, knowing that he would have to find the body, knowing that he would have to pretend to be terrified, knowing that there was nothing left to fear – if they were here.

The elderly man's neck had been snapped. With precision. The kind of precision that came from hundreds of years of practice and strength. The kind of precision that makes it look like a natural death until you look close – unless you know. He had been sat in the supply closet with care.

_Remember her_

_The morgue staff later that evening gave his daughter the photograph clutched in his hand – a photo of a young girl with dark, curling hair. Through the tears of a child losing their parent, the woman clutched the photo with the same ferocity as her now-dead father, through her tears she tried to wonder who the girl had been in the yellowing photo with a smile on her lips but darkness in her eyes, but she had children at home – a lover waiting in secret – a life that kept going and had no space for the mysteries of a prior generation. The photo went in a box with all the others from the lives that were gone. It stopped being a mystery before it ever began, locked away with the past in a box inside a larger box in an attic of a house that later would be abandoned and forgotten._

The student editor (Violet?) insisted that Jeremy's strip be placed alongside the eulogy for the dear departed Mr. Greggor in the special edition of the newspaper later that week. There was (probably) a rousing debate between the students and the staff – considering the long faces surrounding him that day – but Violet (?) kept it all as far from Jeremy as possible, her wild hair standing even more on end than usual. He easily ignored the stir, paid no attention to the tear-stained faces of his coeds, to the whispers in the hallway, to the silence that followed him as he walked to and fro.

He tried to ignore the stack of letters from parents, students, staff that began to overtake his desk – Valerie (?) moved him to a larger desk away from the others. She sat, perched on the edge of his workspace, reading aloud the letters of praise and discontent from the populace of the small city that was so taken with his artistic eulogy – a collection of images set side by side, telling the story of a photograph that was forgotten, a photograph Jeremy was never quite sure actually existed (except in the sleepless nights when the face in the photo teased and tempted him with it's closeness, except in the dead of night when the memory of the photo in the old man's hand woke him in a pool of sweat and tears, except in the quiet stillness that followed his waking each morning when he felt the girl herself beside him on the bed), a photograph that to the world was merely a creation of his imagination. It was described, in the many letters that Vana (?) read aloud to him in the following days:

"… immature attack on the memory of a prominent man in the community…"

"… celebration of the stories that never truly disappear…"

"… dripping in saccharine and insincerity…"

"… delightfully heartbreaking reflection on mortality…"

No one seemed to guess that it was the truth, a truth that he knew all too well. He chuckled along with Virginia (?) at the letters, knowing they couldn't be laughing at the same things. He sometimes watched her intently, glad for the first time in his life to know a girl so untouched by darkness. She blushed under his gaze and found herself perched on his desk far more often than not, watching this brawny boy with soft eyes draw images of a world she was sure wasn't real… watching him while he never seemed to notice her presence. She would tearfully tell her older sister (far away in college, lucky bitch) that she was pretty positive he didn't even know her name. And yet, there she sat, writing letters herself at night just to ensure an interaction the next day.

_Remember her_

Nights grew longer and memories hazier. He begins to feel as though he's being followed. He begins staying out later and later, skirting disaster by staying in the shadows. He joins the baseball team, much to everyone's delight. He ignores them all. He throws himself into the physical action of the game. Always there is a second shadow behind him, smaller than it should be – but there.

He notices first that the other boy is a vampire. After that, he has to concentrate very hard on not noticing. The other boy is like the shadow that follows him constantly, if he turns fully towards either one, the mystery is gone – the shadow is gone, the vampire is gone. Everything is as it should be. He tries to only peek at him from the corner of his eye, but the boy is always _there_. Right in front of his face, taking up the whole world. Talking, laughing. They are best friends.

And Jeremy can not think or hear a word. Only, "Remember her."

And when he turns to see his sister and her Dark consort, he holds back a laugh and a warning.

_Remember her_

The previous week, Jeremy had set Queen Helena in an Ancient court surrounded by consorts and knights. There was no explanation; the characters had not even noted a change. His editor had practically squealed at the costume changes, the setting change… there was more fan mail. Everyone found it inspired. No one, he smiled to himself, who has met Elena, would have been surprised.

His beautiful sister, a queen – a warrior. His breath catches in his chest at the sight of her… he wants to run to her, to hold her, to never let her go. To tell her that (damnit) he was staying with her; that she couldn't make him leave again.

The shadow is so close now; he can nearly feel the warm breath of an invisible person next to him.

He says nothing. He smiles politely. He's angry that she's there, that there's another problem. He snottily insists that he already has plans; that she can wait. Inside he's screaming. Inside he fights himself, fights the distance between them, tries to warn her that _he's coming_ – that it's too late, that the danger is already here. And when it comes, his surprise seems so forced he can't understand how they don't see. He takes Damon's teasing with little effect, he already knew. He knew the whole time and couldn't say.

And when they ask him for the vampire, his heart leaps in hope – hope that he will now be useful, that they won't send him away again. But there is a mask over his face – a man wearing his smile and sarcasm, walking in his skin, acting as if this doesn't matter, as if he isn't leaping inside, isn't joyful beyond belief that once again he is able to be a part of their story again – instead of just telling it to strangers.

And the shadow is so close now he feels suffocated.

"Remember her?"

He whispers it under his breath when he catches them – Elena and Damon – locked together in a dark hallway, reaching for each other as if they could not breath without touching. He stood silently for a few more moments than necessary, watching the struggle play out, watching his sister (his warrior) assert her needs, watched her consort comply. And something in his chest grew tight –

– there, out of the corner of his eye, was a small girl. An impossibly small woman-child, dashing down the hall, disappearing from view. He wanted to follow, wanted to find her and hold her the way his sister was finally holding the shadow that had been following her for so long. But something kept him in place, silently judging a moment he was aching to respect. Something kept him there, a stoic figure in the dim light of the hall.

When Damon walked by, his insides began to shake. He longed to shout out – to tell them all what he wanted, but he couldn't remember what he wanted. He yearned to fly to his shadow, to seek the memory of…

… and later he found himself again saying things he didn't mean. Again he found himself hurting his sister – watching her eyes darken when she looked at him, watched her shirk from his accusing, judging gaze – and he cursed himself inwardly.

But the night was full of shadows and somewhere out there was his, waiting.

_Remember her_

The drive home was quiet and uncomfortable. Jeremy yearned from his place in the backseat to set things right, to be allowed back in, to be allowed to understand where the heavy silence was from. Why his sister's eyes glistened. Why Damon's face was so unexpressive.

When Rose appeared, he wasn't shocked – mostly just disappointed.

When he listened to her, he wasn't shocked – mostly just confused.

He no longer knew how he was supposed to feel about anything. He felt as though Reality was a handful of sand that hand blown away, all that was left were small, glistening fragments of the heap that he had once held onto so tightly. One flick of his wrist, one small movement and his sand-encrusted fingers would be bare, and so would he. One more slip and he would lose all contact with what once was. He was losing to the compulsion, no matter how long he fought it.

He no longer remembered which he was fighting – to remember or to forget. He no longer knew the original message in full, Elena's words that had shaped his most recent past that had swirled in his head like his own. He tried to escape into the blissfulness of not knowing, but something – his own desire, the compulsion – made him keep fighting.

It was exhausting. It was invigorating.

_Remember her_

There was always a flickering on his periphery, as if something was trying to get in. When the seat was once again empty beside him once again, Jeremy looked out into the dark night and searched for his shadow. Searched for the memory of the embrace that his sister's had so reminded him of.

He caught Damon's eye in the rearview mirror and they stared at one another for just a moment. "Remember her," Damon mouthed to him, his lips curling into the sideways smile that Jeremy had fought to forget.

He looked out into the darkness, resting his head against the window, and whispered one small word into the abyss.

The word that had escaped his memory, but had made all the others clear.

The one word that still made sense, even when his own mind and actions no longer made sense.

The one word that could connect what he was supposed to know and all the memories that he clung to regardless.

The one word that filled him with the sharpest pain and the strongest pleasure.

The one word that was still secure, that still belonged to him; the one name that still held all the meaning he could place on it; the one thing in his reality that still felt real; the one thing he could still hold onto without the taste of whiskey overcoming his senses.

The one thing that was still _real_.

"Anna."


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy Gilbert knew that he was dying.

They were all around him – the dead and the undead – watching him through narrowed eyes. No one spoke the words aloud. His sister, vibrant as ever, bristled with energy – daring anyone to mention his impending doom.

He never thought of his age, not really. The faces around him rarely changed. Some aged and died, some disappeared for years at a time, some grew… but really, the dead and the undead were always so near at hand it was as if time was incapable of passing.

Now and then, the liver spots on his hand would startle him – but he laughed them off. There were no mirrors in his home.

There was a son with Bonnie's bright eyes, who grew older and gave him grandchildren, but then was just as unchanging as all the rest. He still lurked in the hallways of the plantation house, watching his children grow older, watching his father die slowly.

There was a daughter with Bonnie's crooked smile… sometimes he thought she was Bonnie. Having her grace in the house was like Bonnie had never left, had never run from the world that he clung to, from the dead and the undead who were his home. And when the daughter grew older, when she was no longer the young woman he remembered, there was another – a granddaughter with the same spirit and laughter as the woman he lost too soon to fear.

Generations always clinging to him, allowing him to believe no time was passing.

The undead always hovering near, watching over his aging body, each year growing younger and more vibrant in his eyes. More alive for their youth.

The dead always clinging to the edge of his vision.

Jeremy knew that he was dying and he called his sister to him.

He asked to be like she was, to be unmade.

"No Jeremy. Not now, you're too –"

"I know I'm too old," he coughed. It was wet. He saw her nose twitch. There was blood on his breath. "I know I'm too old but I don't…"

"Don't what, papa?" the youngest granddaughter. She would be young forever. She smelled of dying roses. Her smile reminded him of a long-ago dream. She grabbed his hand and hers was cold.

He looked up into his sister's eyes, pleading with her eternity. "Please."

She shook her head. "Jeremy – you don't know what you're asking."

He nodded violently, coughing until his chest heaved. Lung cancer. It would probably be lung cancer had he allowed them to take him to a hospital.

He didn't care about the cause. He cared about the outcome. "If I die human, I'll never –"

"He'll never see her again." In the doorway stood Damon Salvatore. Still the same after all these years. As comfortable in Jeremy's death-room as if he hadn't been missing for most of his life. Still the one who understood the words that he couldn't form.

"Bonnie?" Elena's voice was skeptical. She walked to him in the doorway and whispered, "But she's still alive I just – "

Jeremy's hand closed around an invisible presence close to him on the bed. He felt the cold presence of a small body pressed against his side. He couldn't look. A tear trickled down his cheek as he turned his head away from questioning lips. A small head rested on his shoulder and he shook with pain. A pain he had resisted his whole, long, mortal life. The pain of loss.

"No," he called out, never once opening his eyes – she couldn't see him like this. If he didn't see her, then she couldn't know how broken his body was. "Not Bonnie. It was never Bonnie."

His granddaughter – the one with Bonnie's smile and sense of justice – squeezed his hand.

They had all always known. All but his fierce sister with her wild hair and loyal heart.

Elena's blood was soft and velvety on his tongue. Damon snapped his neck efficiently and with no remorse – it seemed like déjà vu, or as if they had finally come full circle.

His first breath was stale and cold. A wrist was put to his lips, he held her hand and never opened his eyes. The blood was like drinking a dream of life.

And then it was over. A stake to the heart in the moment of release from the mortal coil.

And he was standing next to her, holding her hand as he did when he was a young man. The liver spots were gone, he was as clean and as fresh as the day he met her, as the day he fell in love with her, sitting between the library stacks, arguing metaphors.

"Jeremy?" the freckles across the bridge of her nose still stood out against her pale skin as they always had.

He clung to her, drinking her in, his mouth on her lips, her cheeks, her neck…

"Anna," it was neither a word nor a hope, it was the beat of his heart – the breath that expelled from his chest every hour since she had disappeared.

So simple. A childhood love.


End file.
